All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(124)

“Don’t suppose you’d let me out of the car?” I said. “I’ll just disappear, I promise. No trouble. I won’t stick around. I’ll clear out to Montana, be gone as soon as I can hitch a ride.”

Ginny’s barn-door smile swung open again. “I wouldn’t be much of a social worker if I let you do that.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Come on. It won’t be that bad. There will be some changes at first, but it will get better. And remember, it’s only temporary.”

“Right,” I said with a laugh that felt as cold as the glass. “Just for tonight.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit longer than that.”

Well, I thought with brittle clarity, at least she didn’t lie to me.

And then the car turned onto a gravel drive, and we swept past a massive pile of tumbleweeds that had accumulated against a wire fence. Ahead, a small house sat all by itself. It had been hidden by the tumbleweeds, but now I could see it, and all I could think was that it looked like a storybook. I mean, not like an actual book. But it looked like something out of a storybook: it had a gabled roof and big windows that shivered in the wind and reflected the moonlight and a white swing (temporarily tied up, on account of the wind) on the porch, and tucked against the door, like its owner had just stepped inside, was an old-fashioned broom. Warm light, golden light, spilled across the porch and across the rocky stretch of ground that passed for a lawn.

“Here we are,” Ginny said, shifting the car into park.

I climbed out, and Ginny followed me, hunching her big shoulders against the wind. Together we climbed the steps to the porch, and after I shook my head in response to Ginny’s glance, she rapped on the door.

Not juvie, I thought. At least it’s not juvie. Even if they starve me, even if they make me sleep on the ground, at least it’s not juvie.

The door swung open, and I looked into Sara’s big brown eyes, and her cloud of frizzy blond hair, and the smile trembling on her lips like it was going to take that last, fatal plunge if things didn’t go exactly right.

“Hi, Vie,” she said, wrestling the door into the wind with one shoulder. Her hands twisted around each other, and she looked at the broom and at the swing and at Ginny Coyote In Sage and then, last of all, she looked at me.

I started to cry, and Sara swept me into her arms and said, “It’s ok, honey. It’s going to be ok.”





But Sara was wrong. It wasn’t ok. It was better than ok, probably to the surprise of both of us. The small brick house had a bedroom upstairs, tucked under the eaves and with a row of dormer windows that looked out over the sea of buffalo grass and sage and tumbleweeds. In that room, I had a bed with a hand-sewn quilt, the white cotton turned to ivory with age, with spidery letters that said God is Love mixed among tightly stitched clusters of wildflowers. And, in that room, I had a dresser with a drawer full of shirts, and a drawer full of pants, and a drawer full of underwear.

“I asked Kimmy for your size,” Sara said, blushing as I opened the underwear drawer. “I mean, for your shirts and stuff.”

“Thank you.”

“Those are nothing things, Vie. When I heard what you did for my boys . . .” That was the way she said it: my boys, as though Jake and Austin were her children, instead of her nephews, and at that moment a window opened into her heart and I saw all the years she had spent alone. “In any case, you’re exhausted and you need sleep. You’ve got your own bathroom up here, and I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

At that moment, my stomach chose to give an exceptionally loud grumble.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Back in Cheyenne, I thought. No, that wasn’t right. The cupcakes Emmett had given me in the car. I shrugged.

“I’ll bring you something. Something not,” she waved a finger in the air, “from Bighorn Burger.”

Both of us broke into awkward laughter, and when the laughter had run out of steam, Sara said, “You, shower. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“You don’t have to wait on me. I’ll come down.”

“First rule of the house, my dear: I’ll decide if I’m going to wait on you. Shower. Now.”

So, I found the bathroom and showered. It was cramped, but neat and clean, and the builder had somehow managed to squeeze the shower under the eave so that the stall was three-quarters size: the spray didn’t go any higher than my chest, and I had to duck my head to wash my face and hair. When I’d finished, I looked at the bloody, stained clothes I’d left behind on the floor and settled for wrapping a towel around my waist.

I made my way back into my room. Instead of grimy carpet, I had polished hardwood and thick, plush rugs underfoot. Instead of freezing cold, the oil furnace pumped hot air. Instead of the raucous shouts from Slippers growing louder as the night wore on, the wind whistled and battered the shutters. It was a wild sound, but not a mean one—the way someone punches your shoulder after a good game, without any nastiness behind it. I settled at the dresser, opening the drawers, tossing underwear and a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on the bed.

I dropped the towel right as a tapping sound came at the window. I froze. Part of me moved to grab the towel. Part of me looked to see who was at the window. For one horrifying moment, I locked eyes with Emmett Bradley, who perched on the sill. Then I grabbed the towel and wrapped it around myself again.